


Let The Wind Tell You

by YuzuParfait



Series: Jason Todd's Adventures In Healthy Coping Mechanisms [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Sewing, canon is my bitch, no beta we die like jason todd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuzuParfait/pseuds/YuzuParfait
Summary: Then there wasdadBatman, then the Joker, then the fuckingLazarus pit.Waking up with his vision poisoned in a haze of acid green, disoriented andangry. Waking up with resentment that slowly gave way to the bitter resignation that he’d beenreplaced.And waking up with the odd ability to...see the dead?Or the few times Jason Todd makes friends with lost souls in ways that sometimes revolve around sewing as a healthy coping mechanism.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Original Character(s), Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd
Series: Jason Todd's Adventures In Healthy Coping Mechanisms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197071
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	Let The Wind Tell You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to my latest hyperfixation!
> 
> This is my first work in the fandom and honestly all I could think of before writing this was "Man, I really wanna see a fic where Jason sews" But also "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if Jason could see ghosts?" and this baby was born, enjoy!
> 
> The titles were taken from this Genshin Impact Fansong, [让风告诉你 (Let the Wind Tell You)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrNUrgaOsCc) and the game's [official album name of their OST](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_lhaX2hxyuY9K7hQzfjnZwttsNuoQKH0Hg)!

The first time Jason picks up a spool of thread, he’s four years old and still naïve enough to believe things might just end up alright. He’d had the misfortune of popping off a button on his hand-me-down shirt from one of the boys who lived a few doors down. Jason’s memory of it is foggy now, hazy at its edges, and muddled with time. But he could never forget the wave of calm warmth that bloomed within his chest, flowing through him like a fiery hearth lit within a snowy winter night. 

Catherine’s hands were warm as they enveloped his smaller ones, slowly guiding him through the precise and methodical motions that went into fixing a new button into the now blank spot on his shirt.

How she’d learned to sew would always remain a mystery to him, he’d never had the chance to ask. The question still lingers on the tip of his tongue whenever he visits her grave, his ratty jeans soaked, and covered in grass stains as he remains seated upon the hard ground in front of her headstone.

 _Here lies Catherine Todd_. A voice in his head reads in a whisper, his heart hollows and his breath remains lodged in his throat.

It never gets easier.

He visits often, for the first few years, never straying far from where she’s buried—six feet under the cold, packed dirt. He sits there, forehead pressed against rough stone as he pretends his hands aren’t covered in blisters and scars. As if he wasn’t wearing the worn-down clothing he’d stolen out of the bag from an older gang member he’d kneecapped with a tire iron, the collar drooping off his malnourished frame while he reminisces of the time before his life went to absolute metaphorical and literal shit. 

Jason can’t help but remember the soft smile on her face as she steadied his hands, urging him to pick the colour of thread he’d wanted from a rotting wooden box that housed the scarce selection they had, pressing a kiss to his hand after he’d flinched, having accidentally pricked himself with a stray needle left behind within the depths of the old storage. 

The warmth of his mother’s hands in the memory never truly leaves, even as her condition worsens. Even while Jason takes note of how his mother slowly starts losing track of her days, merely awaiting her next fix. Even as the warmth she once emanated like a furnace was rapidly replaced with cold sweat and clammy hands.

Even when Jason finds her, Catherine’s glassy, lifeless eyes open, and skin as cold as ice, on that fateful day. 

Then there was ~~dad~~ Batman, then Joker, then the fucking _Lazarus pit_. Waking up with his vision poisoned in a haze of acid green, disoriented and _angry_. Waking up with resentment that slowly gave way to the bitter resignation that he’d been _replaced_.

Waking up with the odd ability to...see the dead?

\---

The first time Jason spots something out of the ordinary is within his first few weeks in the league. The people around him aren’t exactly subtle in their actions to ensure that Jason knows exactly what his place within the fortress is.

 _"Worthless,"_ His instructors sneer, disdain laced into every word that leaves their mouths, so much so that they _drip_ with poison, staining his vision with a kaleidoscope of green. 

_"The failure."_ The servants around him whisper.

Jason has always found it funny, how honest people tended to be when they were oblivious to the fact that the people they spoke so ill of might’ve understood the string of venom that slipped from their lips, spilling out like generic radioactive green waste into the murky depths of Gotham Harbour.

But Jason doesn’t need to listen to the whispers he hears throughout the fortress’ walls just to know his place.

_A sacrificial pawn on a chessboard._

As if he hadn’t realised that the moment he’d found out that he’d been replaced. 

A logical side of his mind tells him that Batman _needs_ a Robin, always has, and always _will_. That he was never a replacement to Dick either, albeit the fact that his mere presence was the source of the strained relationship between ~~his older brother~~ the man and ~~their dad~~ Bruce for a long time. 

Sometimes on lonely nights in Nanda Parbat, nights when he wakes up with the shriek of distorted laughter ringing in his ears and the taste of dirt in his mouth, Jason lets his mind wander to how ~~his family~~ Bruce and Dick are doing now, especially with the addition of the new kid. 

_‘Tim Drake,’_ his mind supplies, and Jason can never rid himself of the sharp twinge of jealousy that flares within his chest whenever he thinks of the smile he’s seen on the kid’s face—wide and full of more joy than any boring socialite could muster out of a sea of rich pricks at any the latest Wayne charity gala. 

Jason would be lying if he said he hadn’t almost broken the tablet Talia had lent him when he’d first seen the replacement’s face on the news articles he’d managed to sneak peeks of. 

The kid is living the life he’d never gotten the chance to, further supplied by the candid photographs of the Drake kid and _Dickolas_ actually carrying out acts of brotherly affection with each other, something Jason never truly had the fortune to experience with the asshole back when he was alive the first time.

Then there was the issue with _Robin_. Jason knew that Bruce had ~~replaced him~~ passed on the Robin mantle to the Drake kid not more than six months after he got his shit done in and blown up by the Joker in Ethiopia. 

Jason had been livid when he’d found out, and Talia had to lock him in a hastily evacuated training room as she attempted to reason with the green inside his head, eating him out from the deep recesses of his soul. The Pit flowed through him from its spot wrapped around his heart, leaching into his movements and words, leaking from his eyes.

Timothy Jackson Drake- _Wayne_ was raised within the Gotham elite. Soft and polite, with hardly any rough edges to spare. He’s everything Bruce would’ve preferred him to be.

Meanwhile Jason’s got enough jagged, sharp and torn up edges on him to be the by-product of a fucked up Frankenstein chainsaw-mace experiment. He was barely taped together when he ran off to Ethiopia.

He still barely is.

It’s truly no wonder.

Only after what had felt like hours swimming in a radioactive cauldron brew of bubbling rage and grief, Talia had eventually succeeded in trapping him in a hug, cradling his head upon her shoulder the same way he’d seen her do with Damian countless times before she put him to bed, sobs tearing themselves out of his throat without his permission. 

He hears the soft tune of a lullaby sung in League dialect; reminding him of softer, calmer times. Of the times the song had filled his ears during the nights they’d sat in Damian’s room—illuminated under the pale moonlight, with Jason tucked into her side, and the younger boy in his arms.

She’d whispered reassurances into his ear, promises that she’d sworn to keep. 

But as his vision cleared, psychedelic green fading to a mere light tinge, he couldn’t help but notice a translucent figure seated by the doorway. Their gaze was steely, hardened with a depth that spoke of centuries of experience, a depth that Jason doubted anyone but Ra’s Al Ghul could rival. He could never forget the Jasmine scent that permeated the air, flowing through the entire room after the odd woman took notice of his stare. And in the blink of an eye, with all the grace of a skilled warrior, she’d stood up, and shot him a challenging smirk before fading into nothing.

And when Talia had gently lifted his chin so that he would meet her gaze, he had half a mind to ask whether or not hallucinations were another side effect of the Pit that she’d forgotten to tell him about. 

It was a while before Jason had realised the heavy Jasmine scent was gone.

\---

The second time he gets the chance to see the figure again, it’s been at least two weeks since the last fiasco that was his ‘Pit Episode’. Jason’s taken to calling them his ‘Hulk Outs’, much to the quiet exasperation of Talia and even Damian, who’d been oddly and loudly insistent on finding out who the angry green cretin named ‘Hulk’ was until Talia had snuck in a DVD for them about a week ago. But that doesn’t mean Jason doesn’t notice the subtle spark of amusement in their eyes whenever he mentions the name out loud.

However, along with the subtle amusement, he also spots the carefully masked worry. And he knows that they aren’t that worried about his so-called ‘Hulk Outs’, but more so of his seemingly deteriorating mental health that’s been fuelling said episodes instead. Ever since his exit from his brief dunk in the funky, ungodly depths of the Lazarus pit, Talia’s been urging him to meet with a supposedly trusted League therapist in between his training sessions, promising him secrecy and privacy away from the prying ears of gossip mongers and even Ra’s Al Ghul himself.

And while Jason sincerely appreciates her concern and care for him, he can’t help but shake the feeling that he’s being watched. The sensation increasing in intensity every passing day and burning like lasers into the nape of his neck in the dark of the night. 

Maybe Damian _was_ right, he truly was losing his mental and metaphorical marbles.

The moment Jason had expressed an interest in the art of sewing and knitting, Talia had gifted him with a dark, glossy cherry wood chest filled with fine fabrics, plush silks and golden threads. A comforting warmth blooms within his chest, followed by a mild twinge of guilt at the thought of the trouble they must’ve gone through just to acquire the stupidly expensive materials, all neatly arranged within the sturdy wooden compartment. 

But Talia had merely brushed off every single one of his attempts to show his appreciation, casually stating it was nothing but a small effort to at least have her son busy his hands with something productive when he grew antsy. Oddly enough, he finds that both Talia and Damian would sooner disappear than tell him where they had obtained the beautiful wooden chest from. 

He doesn’t think much about it, though. Because Jason can’t seem to shake off the pure shot of dopamine that burned through every fibre of his being at fact that Talia had called him her _son_.

A large smile stretches across his face, the intensity of it leaving his cheeks aching when he discovers soft packages of plain, but no doubt equally as lavish, cotton yarn and wool wrapped in discreet brown paper, and tucked beneath the small mountain of green silks and golden fabrics. And if Jason accidentally smudges his sketch of the leopard-eared headband he was planning to knit with a couple of tears? Well, that’s for him to know and for no one else to find out.

Other times when Jason’s plagued with nightmares of rusty crowbars accompanied by shredded wood and silk lining, he crawls up onto the nearest roof he can manage to climb while keeping his footing steady. Then he sits, savouring the way the night’s cool air sweeps against his sweat-soaked clothing and clammy skin while he does his best to pretend as if he isn’t still feeling the lingering pull of fear that latches onto him with needle-sharp claws that vehemently refuse to let go.

It’s well past midnight by the time Jason registers that there’s a presence by his side, a pure indication that he’d been so far gone that he hadn’t even noticed that someone’s sneaked up to take a seat beside him. But before he even gets the chance to raise his head and glare at the person who’d interrupted his late-night loathing, the familiar heavy scent of Jasmine fills his lungs, and Jason almost jumps when he feels an odd, cold sensation resting upon his right shoulder.

His back straightens as he tenses, instantly arranging himself into a protective stance with his attention immediately trained upon the perpetrator. It takes a moment before his brain manages to unscramble the sight before him, eyes widening and breath catching in his throat when he recognises the same translucent figure from the other night. The woman sends him a sharp, satisfied smirk, with eyes so bright that they almost glow against the dark backdrop of night. And Jason can’t help but notice the blatant amusement and mirth dancing upon their battle-hardened features. 

“You’re quite the difficult one to catch, Little Bird.” The figure drawls, their voice strong and deep, softened by an edge of mirth. “I have been trying to catch your attention for the longest time,” She moves closer before placing another hand on the top of his head, “After all, it has been centuries since one has had the gift to see me last.”

She ruffles his hair, the sensation odd and light, as if it were nothing more than a small gust of wind breezing through his tangled locks instead of the heavy weight one would expect upon their head with an action like that. And Jason’s confused brain chalks it up to the fact that the action was carried out by a slightly translucent hand belonging to a surprisingly undead being.

Jason can’t bring himself to do anything but stare up at her, body frozen solid with shock. _‘Man,’_ he thinks, _‘I should really take up Talia’s recommendation for therapy.’_

The figure in front of him barks out a laugh, the sound equal parts airy and gruff, and Jason’s face flushes a shade of red deep enough to rival even Talia’s lipstick when he realises that he’d said those words aloud.

“You are quite the charmer, no?” The woman laughs, shooting him a smile. “Unfortunately, I stand before you as a wandering soul, not yet lost to the sands of time. My name is Izzati, pray tell what might yours be?”

“‘s Jason,” He mumbles, scrubbing at his red-rimmed eyes in an effort to try and see the spirit clearer than his tired and puffy eyes would allow. He blinks, slowly registering the woman’s words from earlier, “And I ain’t little!” 

“Of course, Little Bird,” Izzati snorts, scooching herself closer towards the spot where Jason was still seated, and placing her arm on top of his head before leaning what seemed to be her entire translucent body against his side, “And I am not yet deceased.” 

A startled laugh escapes him, and Jason’s shoulders are shaking as he thinks about the absolute absurdity of everything that he’s experienced in his short life, including but not limited to the fact that he got the ever-living shit beat out of him with a crowbar that probably gave him tetanus and also his subsequent resurrection. Though, with how shitty and bizarre his whole night had been, he was pretty sure that Scarecrow had somehow managed to escape his cell in Arkham to come up with some nasty new toxin, blasting it into the air of the compound just to spite him. 

Probably as payback for all the times he used to tell Scarecrow and the Riddler to get a room so the latter could shove his weird stick up the mad scientist’s ass back when he was still Robin. 

But the odd, cold sensation leaning against Jason’s side dispels most of the voices in his head that are yelling at him that everything he’s been seeing has just been some sort of fucked up hallucination. But he still has a million questions running through his head, and yet, so little answers to them. 

Just like with Catherine.

He’d never gotten the chance to see her ghost.

But this time, he’s staring at one right in front of him, and he refuses to let go of the opportunity to get to know them a little better. Besides, a tiny chat definitely wouldn't hurt, right?

Jason wonders if there are things that are considered too rude to ask a ghost that’s probably older than even Ra’s himself, even with the long 600 oddish years he’s had the help of his glowy green bathwater for.

 _‘Fuck it,’_ He thinks as relaxes into the weightless, yet heavy cold spot by his side, and opens his mouth. “Could you teach me how to fight?” 

Izzati shifts from her spot by Jason’s side, moving instead to sit where she can stare clearer into his eyes. “How about we make a deal, yes?” She says, a small smile gracing her face, and Jason waits for the other inevitable shoe to drop. “I will teach you how to fight, but you must promise to grant me one wish in return.”

Jason tilts his head in understanding, urging her to continue with her request. He’d known from his very first days of growing up in Crime Alley and even his first few moments of lucidity in the League that every request came with a challenge, and Jason hadn’t expected any different from the spirit seated in front of him. In fact, he would’ve been even more suspicious of the spirit if she’d declined anything in return, an eye for an eye was a recurring theme within the barracks and the streets.

“I request your assistance to aid me in remembering what it is like to be alive again.”

Jason chokes, and does his best to compose himself before carefully mulling over his next words. “Look, lady, I may have died once, but I can even hardly remember ever even living as a ghost. Hell, I probably wasn’t even granted that.” 

He pauses, breathing in deep before continuing, “But I’m somehow alive now, so I promise I can try. I hope that could be enough, at least.”

Izzati beams, wrapping him up in what feels like the weirdest hug he’s ever been in in his life, but Jason would be lying if he said that it didn't make him feel calmer in an odd, weightless way. “I understand that I may be asking for much, but I believe I may be able to make it worth your while.”

Jason smiles back, a small, tiny thing, and wraps his arms around her translucent waist as well, revelling in the fact that his fingers didn’t just pass through her as if she was nothing but air, like a figment of his imagination. 

“Thank you,” He says, and he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in Izzati’s eyes when she finally pulls back from the hug.

“We will start bright and early! I refuse to allow my new protégé to fall behind in the field,” Izzati announces, smirking at the confusion on Jason’s face when he tells her he has classes with different instructors in the morning as well. 

“Well, no one has implied that I am unable to be with you during them while you train, yes?” She sends him one last knowing look before fading off into the night, leaving no trace of her existence. And if Jason hadn’t known that she was real, he would have thought the effects of the toxin in his system were finally wearing off.

But Jason knew better.

And if Jason stayed up on his spot on the roof until the heavy Jasmine scent had faded away completely, that was nobody's business but his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy about 1 week since the end of Lunar 牛 Year!! 新年快乐，万事如意!
> 
> Here's to a better 2021 for all of us! I really wanted to post this earlier but I didn't want to get struck down from the heavens by working on it during LNY so I decided not to test my luck. I hope y'all are ready to strap on for the ride!
> 
> The Genshin Impact OST is like instant serotonin to the brain man, I'm pretty sure I wrote half of this chapter running on nothing but that OST alone.
> 
> Comments and Kudos _fuel_ me, they give me all the sustenance I require to survive. Please drop a tiny <3 as an extra kudo if you'd like!
> 
> Talk to me on my Twitter! [@ZuzuHanyu!](https://twitter.com/ZuzuHanyu)


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